solace in you
by agreyrainbow
Summary: When two lonely souls - drawn to each other by their differences - come together and discovers mutual empathy, Kojima Fuyumi finds solace in the most unlikely person. Yukimura/OC


**Solace In You**

.

_In that moment I knew_

_I saw something in you_

.

"Anybody?" Hiraishi-sensei said as he tapped his chalk against the table. "Come on, surely one of you know something. Miss Kojima, perhaps?"

Fuyumi tore her gaze from the window, which she had been staring vacantly out of for the last ten minutes. From up the front the stout man shot her a pleading look through his half-rimmed spectacles. The class seemed to have fallen into some a comatose state, though she supposed Hiraishi-sensei was quite commendable for his persistence to teach a class of third-years on a Friday afternoon… despite how fruitless his efforts were. It was quite understandable, really – Ms. Hanari, their art teacher, was absent from school, and the substituting math teacher thought it'd be productive replacing their practical lesson with a theory one. Sparing the balding man another glance – he was quite pitiful, really – Fuyumi cleared her throat as she rose from her seat.

"Impressionism is a 19th century art movement, originated from a group of Paris-based artists." Fuyumi said tonelessly as she recited the textbook definition he was looking for. "Paintings that demonstrate characteristics of the Impressionist Movement are usually composed with subtle brush strokes and emphasis on accurate depiction of light, often highlighting effects of the passage of time."

"Very good." Hiraishi-sensei nodded vigorously as she resumed her seat. "Now, if you would turn to page two-hundred and sixty…"

Fuyumi returned her attention back out the window. The view boasted of an open landscape that stretched far into the horizon, consisting of three tennis courts that belonged to the school's prized tennis club. The courts were constructed at a lower level in the ground, with steps leading down, like that of a stadium. Tennis, Fuyumi discovered, was a highly-regarded sport at Rikkaidai. Their team was considered to be the best team, having won the Japanese National Tournament for the past two consecutive years. But as interesting and popular as the sport may appear, Fuyumi couldn't seem to wrap her head around how people fail to tire from whacking balls at each other.

Half an hour later, the bell sounded like a prayer answered by the heavens. The students filtered out of the classrooms like one giant organism, shuffling towards the doors as they made their exit. Hiraishi-sensei smiled at her as she passed, and Fuyumi acknowledged him with a curt nod, before continuing her way out of the classroom. He wasn't her favourite teacher - nor did she think he was a very good one either - but it never hurt to be polite.

Fuyumi was halfway to her locker until –

"Hey, Fuyumi! Did you hear?" Akimoto Akari, a short and bubbly brunette girl, floundered excitedly. Akari was renowned for being the resident gossip girl in the school, and never failed to share the latest discoveries of her (fairly accurate) scoops. She also happened to be her best friend.

"I've heard many things," Fuyumi said as they reached her locker, fumbling with the combination before depositing her textbooks. "Depends which one you are referring to."

Akari's eyes shimmered brightly. "Yukimura Seiichi has been discharged from the hospital. He'll be returning next week!"

"Ah."

Fuyumi remained unperturbed by the news, and instead chose to ignore the exasperated eye-roll Akari gave her.

Yukimura Seiichi was a name on everyone's lips – the calm and dignified captain that lead the nation's strongest tennis team. The _Child of God_, they called him. But, despite the maelstorm that the Child of God and the rest of the tennis club stirred, Fuyumi couldn't care less when their precious captain was rushed off to the hospital. After all, it wasn't like she knew him personally.

"Geez, you could at least _pretend _you care, you heartless cow," she smiled jokingly, nudging the taller girl with her elbow. "This is why boys stopped trying. Ah, such beauty is wasted on you."

"Shut up."

Outside on the other side of the building was the school's track field, and Fuyumi can make out the tiny specks in the distance running laps. After school was the prime time for club activities and when all the athletes and their ranbunctious fans come out to play. As part of their school curriculum, it was mandatory for all students to be part of a club, and although while Fuyumi was no exception to the rule, she somehow managed to escape the confrontations of her year advisor. And after two years of an unsuccessful attempt to chase her up, her teachers eventually gave up.

Akari was part of the volleyball team, and so she stayed behind for practice. The remaining students lingered at the front gates of the academy, school bags slung lazily over a shoulder, as they bid their goodbyes to their peers before parting ways towards their respective homes.

In the courtyard shards of splintered light splashed through the foliage of the withering cherry clossom trees and speckled the ground in tiny golden flecks, and occasionally a leaf would wander astray from its branch; fluttering down in an incoherent spiral as gravity took its toll. The older leaves – dry and crisp due to its deprivation of moisture – crackled and crunched beneath the by-passers' feet.

Despite the warm sunlight that kissed her cheeks, the September breeze was still quite chilly, and the bare skin of her face, arms and legs prickled when a gentle breath of autumn picked up. Rubbing her arms fervently, Fuyumi regretted not bringing her blazer.

.

.

"Fuyumi-chan, the keys are on the table, so remember to lock up after you're done, okay?"

"Okay."

There was still another twenty minutes before they closed, and Fuyumi busied herself with tidying up the shelves. Trailing her fingers across the hard-covered spines, she let herself relax in the smell of books and old parchment. The store was relatively quiet, and it was here that Fuyumi truly appreciated the hushed silence and the tranquility it brought. Perhaps it was the mutual understanding and appreciation that preserved the peace, as even the customers were cautious not to disturb the sacred place where multitudes of worlds and tales that dwelled upon its shelves.

"…Is that you, Kojima-san?"

Fuyumi looked up from the book, and was met by blue eyes that belonged to –

"Yukimura-kun," she said, surprised. Then, "I'm surprised you recognise me." Because as if the _Child of God _would actually pay attention to someone like her.

"Of course. I make an effort to remember all my classmate's names."

His smile was polite, a finely sculpted curve on his porcelain face. He was in her art class, Fuyumi remembered, and briefly felt guilty that she did not share that effort. She had never the opportunity to converse with him, let alone see him up close before, and it never bothered, as she never needed to. But now that she was, she finally understood everyone's obsession with him – why the girls adored him and the subject of envy amongst the boys. Fair-skinned and eyes of the deepest blue, Yukimura Seiichi, Fuyumi realised, was beautiful. But what caught her attention was not his face, but rather the book he held in his hand: _Poems of Paul Verlaine._

"_Les roses comme avant palpitent ; comme avant,_

_Les grands lys orgueilleux se balancent au vent,_

_Chaque alouette qui va et vient m'est connue_."

"_Après trois ans_," his voice was laced with pleasant surprise, and Yukimura's smile seemed to soften as he held the book up. "You like French poetry too, Kojima-san?"

"Only a few," she said as they walked towards the counter. "_Après trois ans_ and_ Autumn Song_ are the only works I know by Verlaine. I'm a bigger fan of Modernist poetry, like T.S. Eliot." Taking the book, Fuyumi scanned the barcode inside the hard-cover before handing it back to him. "I heard you have been discharged, Yukimura-kun."

"I have."

There was no bite in his tone. But it made her pause, and Fuyumi reluctantly met his eyes. What she saw was not anger nor sadness, but a sort of bitterness that came with a sense of helplessness that he probably must have felt when he was hospitalized. The inability to pursue your passion, and the frustration of not being able to do anything about it. Fuyumi saw it, recognised it, and a wave of understanding washed over her.

"I'm sorry."

"That I was sick?"

"No," Fuyumi offered him a sad smile. "That you couldn't play tennis."

.

.

True to Akari's word, Yukimura returned the following Monday, and the school was tossed into rabid chaos. The girls became wild and started clawing at each other, tearing off limbs and sent heads flying as they attacked at their blue-eyed prey. The sky turned red, foreboding of an approaching apocalypse as tremors shook the ground, splitting open and creating large fissures that swallowed you in the abyssal darkness.

...As if.

Fuyumi sighed as she set down her pen, distracted by the commotion around her. Her math homework lay incomplete in front of her – the numbers and symbols almost like a foreign language to her. It didn't help that she already gotten herself a lack of application for her poor performance in last week's quiz either, receiving a dismal score of 55.

Math just really wasn't her thing.

"Fuyumi ~! Whatcha doing?" Akari seated herself in the desk in front. Her face fell when she saw the paper. "Shit."

"You haven't done it either, have you?" It was more of a statement rather than a question, and the blonde girl grinned sheepishly at her. Fuyumi massaged her temples, having given up on the work before her. She stood up, smoothing out the creases of her shirt and walked off.

Akari called behind her. "Where're you going?"

"Bathroom."

* * *

Yukimura didn't have to peak his ears or spare a backward glance to know they were talking about him.

It was inevitable, and when Yukimura woke up in the morning and got ready for school, he had already prepared himself for the fact that people were going to treat him differently.

Yukimura had always _been_ treated differently - he already learned to (begrudgingly) accept the reality of it a long time ago. Wherever he went, whether it was walking down the school corridor or the classroom, it was hard to avoid the low murmurs of awe and apprehension that followed him everywhere like a shadow.

But now that he returned, recovered from his surgery and rehabilitation, he was treated even _more _differently. And Yukimura hated it – the way his classmates gushed and cooed and how the teachers proclaimed that he was an inspiration to them all, he _hated _it. He bore the condolescenses and the compliments with a fixed smile and returned with strained gratitude as people fabricated tales and forced words in his mouth, as if he were a tragic war hero.

_"__I'm sorry." _

_"__That I was sick?"_

_"__No." She smiled at him sadly. "That you couldn't play tennis."_

She had looked at him in a way that he could only describe as…different. Different to the pity and the concern and the admiration he received from other people.

It was empathy, he realized.

He remembered Kojima Fuyumi mostly from his art class, even though they shared other subjects together: math and French. Yukimura often painted with watercolours. He marveled at how the colours bled and mixed and formed new shades – the blues, reds and yellows combining to make purples greens and greys - creating layers and new meanings that overlapped with ambiguous intent.

Kojima Fuyumi used oil paints. He remembered the precise touch of her brush against the canvas, creating fine brushstrokes with the flick of her wrist. She would be so immersed in her art practice that she would continue working on her piece, oblivious that their class had ended and she had skipped lunch, until the next class would have to throw her out. But if there was one thing that Yukimura had noticed – she only uses blacks and whites.

She was different. But even so, what did _she_ know, to give him that look of understanding?

He was about to enter his classroom when –

"_Ouch!"_

Yukimura paused. Immediately everyone's attention turned to the source of the high-pitched cry.

A small and scrawny boy – a freshman, Yukimura concluded – was on his knees, scrambling to pick up the pieces of paper that were strewn across the floor. The upperclassmen loomed over him, considerably bigger and full of malice, watched him with unconcealed amusement. When the small boy reached for the last sheet, one of the older boys kicked him, sending the sheets flying out of his hand once again as they erupted into fits of laughter.

The scene had attracted a small crowd, and although some of the onlookers looked as if they were about to help, a glare from the offenders warned them otherwise.

Yukimura had enough.

Stepping forward into the clearing, he went down on one knee and silently collected the papers while the bullies sauntered off in muttering retreats, bored and wise in their decision to not mess with _the _Yukimura Seiichi, Child of God. Gradually as the crowd dispersed as the students scampered off to their respective classes, Yukimura dusted off his pants and handed the papers to the freshman; eyes shining bright as he stammered his thanks, before he too ran off to his designated class.

"You know, it is things like this that makes you stand out further."

Leaning against the opposite wall with her arms folded at her chest, Kojima Fuyumi looked at him with her forest-green eyes. Her dark-brown hair rolled off her shoulders and hung below her elbows, framing her face which bore an unreadable expression.

She had a point. But…

"I did what I only thought was right." There was a pregnant pause. "…I don't suppose you were planning on stopping them?"

"...It wasn't any of my business." The green-eyed girl pushed herself off the wall. Brushing her bangs from her delicate face, she turned her heel and walked off, his eyes lingered on her retreating form as she turned a corner and disappeared.

"I see." In his head, _I thought you were different._

_._

* * *

**TBC.**

'_The roses throb as in a bygone day,__  
__As they were wont, the tall proud lilies sway.__  
__Each bird that lights and twitters is a friend.'_

The English translation of the passage from Verlaine's poem, _Après trois ans._


End file.
